Confessions
by Serendipity545
Summary: Subjective pairing. "Care to explain?"


So, I've been re-reading this quote book of mine lately. And they're giving me a lot of good ideas. Here's the first of (hopefully) many.

**Added: Is this showing up as centered? PM me and let me know, thanks. :)**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own nothing. :)

* * *

_"Explaining is generally half-confessing."-George Savile, Marquess de Halifax, 1706._

* * *

His eyes burn you, raking over your body.

You're laying on the floor, your father's sports jacket draped across your bare shoulders, and a bottle of Pinot Noir clutched in your left hand. It's almost comical; if you hat a mucky old hat and a beard, you could almost pass for a typical drunk.

"What are you doing on the floor?"

Hmm. Wouldn't he like to know? His eyes are wandering over your body, most likely noting the torn hem of your dress, the distant look in your eye.

You're on this floor because your boyfriend stood you up again. Again. While he generally puts work before you, (_he always has_) having him reschedule tonight just took the fucking cake.

It's not like his own engagement party happens every day.

The banquet hall was suffocating as you mingled and socialized, deflecting the awkward questions (something you've always been good at). The hours wore on, and soon all the press left when it finally sunk in that there was no 'happy couple' to take pictures of.

You were left in the banquet hall, running your finger around the rim of your glass, while the cleaning crew started to pack up. As you stumbled to the coat closet to grab your jacket (_from him, ridiculously expensive, and shiny. You outgrew shiny, sparkly things in your later teen years, not that he'd know_), you decided that this was as good of a place as any to breakdown. You drank and cried and didn't care that your mascara had probably turned your face black.

Now he (_a different he. Your he is still at work. Or is still hard at work, banging the secretary. Or your best friend. You aren't quite sure yet._) has entered the closet and disrupted your hysterics.

"Do you want to tell me why you're in here crying your eyes out?" His voice is relatively soothing, but you feel the pity behind the question.

Summoning that renowned tone of blandness, you ask, "Since when have I had to ever explain myself to you?"

He slides down to join you on the floor, and gently eases the bottle from your hand, taking a swig for himself. You almost chastise him for not using a glass, but you don't really want him to share yours either.

"Eh, never. But there's a first time for everything," he jokes. You roll your eyes and snatch the bottle back, "Look, do you need anything?" he questions seriously, tilting your chin towards him with his index finger.

His face is fuzzy in front of you, and he looks so much like the boy (_because after this little stunt he pulled by disappearing from their engagement party, he clearly still isn't a man_) you love. A little voice (or maybe just the alcohol) is telling you that what you need is someone who loves you.

Someone who appreciates you and your beauty.

Who says your name when he sleeps. Or at least when you two are in the middle of lovemaking.

But you can't tell the guy in front of you that, no. Because to tell him that is to admit that your relationship is crap and all the things the two of you have managed to keep out of the press would come spilling out after that.

Most of all, you can't tell him because you'd hate to ruin the image of his best friend and bandmate.

Then you decide to screw it. Let the chips fall where they may. It's time to take something that you need.

The alcohol has dried out your throat, but you grab on to his dark curls and pull him closer so he can hear you.

"This is what I need." You lie down on the floor and pull him on top of you, kissing him deeply, strongly.

He responds, and clothing is shed, and he cries your name on the floor of a coat closet in a banquet hall in some random neighborhood of L.A. You two are hasty and rough and passionate. There is never a moment of passivity, both of you touching and exploring and enjoying.

Luckily for the two of you, you're done when one of the cleaning crew tastefully knocks on the door, alerting you to his (or her) presence.

He kisses you on the forehead as you slide the strap of your dress back on and whispers, "You know this was only for tonight, right?"

"How can it be any other way?" you mumble, sliding on your high heels. He swallows painfully, nods, and exits the closet first.

You smash the empty bottle of alcohol against the coat rack (_the cleaning woman is coming in anyway_) and walk stoically back to your car, where you break down again.

--

You open the door as quietly as you can, but he's waiting in the great room, watching TV.

"How'd the party go?"

"Fine." He looks up at your strangled tone, wary.

"Babe, I told you that I couldn't make it because of work. I'm sure whoever's birthday it was had a great time without me anyway."

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

He stands up from the chair and attempts to charm you with a smile before his eyes zero in and darken angrily on your chest, where neither the jacket nor the dress can fully cover the hickey that he left you.

"Care to explain?" He's close enough now that you can check for signs of his own indiscretions.

You find it, and swipe your thumb along the right side of his neck, near his collarbone. The reddish smear of lipstick doesn't match the shade you were wearing tonight.

"Do you?"

* * *

Since you've made it all the way down to the end, how bout you click the nifty new review button right underneath this author's note? Thanks, Serendipity545.

**Added: Oh lord, asterisks are showing up. Am I dreaming? **************** Nope, there they are. **

***Screams loudly***


End file.
